Fall from Grace
by Frank Hunter
Summary: This story explores Frank Jaeger's position after the fall of Outer Heaven. It explains how he got involved with Zanzibar Land and how he adopted the philosophy we see in the Cyborg Ninja's final words to Solid Snake. Reviews are greatly appreciated.
1. Introduction

**Fall from Grace  
Introduction**  
By, Frank Hunter

I said at the end of _The Road to Outer Heaven_ that I would pick up a new Metal Gear fic if I came up with something good. Well, it turns out I didn't. But, one of my readers did. XxThe SorrowxX suggested that I explore what happened to Fox between Outer Heaven and Zanzibar Land, and after I heard the suggestion I couldn't stop thinking about it, so here we go.

_Fall from Grace_ is a semi-sequel to _RtOH_. You do not need to have read that one in order to pick up this one. I just have not yet decided whether I plan to reference it here or not. If I do, it probably will just be in passing, so save the time if you'd like. On the other hand…go read my stuff!

Also, if you decide my work is not to your taste, my patron, XxThe SorrowxX, is in the middle of a piece called _The Sorrow's Demise_ which is also quite good. I would suggest hopping over and taking a look at that as well, if you have not already.

OK, done with the plugs. Without further ado, I present _Fall from Grace_. Enjoy, review, critique, whatever. It all helps me in the long run! And thank you to all the readers who have helped me so far to get to this point. This one goes out to you.


	2. The Stranger

**Fall from Grace  
Chapter 1: The Stranger  
**By, Frank Hunter

_Kosovo  
May, 1999_

The streets of the city are crowded this afternoon, as they are most afternoons. Merchants peddle their goods to the highest bidder. Women in robes hurry toward their errands, their eyes peering through a sea of black cloth at nothing in particular. Horses and camels spit and shit in the streets and no one bats an eye. The smells of the waste and the dirt and the sand, the sweating animals and human beings all join into one aroma that is distinctly Middle East.

And through the heat of the mid day sun and the stench of the marketplace, one stranger passes unnoticed toward a small church.

This stranger has no right being in this place, but he is here anyway. Despite being a stranger, he still has the appearance of a man who belongs. He is more than capable of appearing that way. Appearance comes second nature to him.

At first glace, he might be mistaken for one of the women. The black robe and the scarf around his head would give that impression at first glance. But, then one's eyes might be drawn to the curved saber hung at his hip. One might think that it looks out of place. But, upon taking in the true appearance of the man, one would realize that he was wrong. The muscles evident beneath his robe, and the calm, collected way he held himself were not the demeanor of just any peasant. It reflected soldier training, and very good training at that. The saber would not look more at home anywhere else than with him.

The stranger has a sense of mysticism about him. Those who come into close contact are left with some impression of what he has seen in his life, and are left to wonder about the rest. Eyes look after him as he passes, with curiosity and awe, sometimes with defensiveness, sometimes aggressiveness, always with interest. No one can really be sure what they see when they get this brief look at him, but it always leaves an impression.

Some are touched by the Little Hunter; the boy who had coolly and carelessly slaughtered men three times his size. The child soldier who had fought on the front lines of several theatres of war in Africa. The confidence and harsh demeanor he radiates certainly draws that image to the minds of several shuddering men.

…but not many. After all, the stranger left that life behind years ago.

Others are touched by Null, the perfect soldier. The war machine created in South America by endless mental anguish and psychic torture. The fighter who was programmed never to accept defeat. The calculated way he walks and the straight line he makes for his objective, the way his eyes stay focused on what he wants. _These_ certainly draw that image in the minds of other men, taken by his indifference, which seems impossibly fed by his total awareness.

…but not all. Though the stranger's mind is still haunted by memories of glass tubes and battle fever, he has worked to move himself past that chapter of his life as well.

Many still see Gray Fox, the American Special Forces veteran who headed up the team FOX-HOUND. The field leader who always knew the answer. The spy who, alongside Solid Snake, had discovered the existence of Metal Gear and played a part in saving the world from its evil. The way his shoulders and head are held high with a sense of righteousness and justice, this certainly draws that image in the minds of the impressed masses around him.

…but still not some. It was four years ago now that this stranger had been betrayed by FOX-HOUND and its leader, Big Boss. He'd been sent on a mission where he was meant to be captured and killed. If not for Solid Snake, he would have been. After that, and after Outer Heaven's fall, even Gray Fox became just another lost alias. The stranger was once more left with nothing. No cause. No beliefs. Nothing to fight for.

Those few who had the greatest insight, could look at the stranger and see this. They could see everything he was. They could see everything he had done; all the bad he had done as a child, and all the good he had accomplished in his later life. They could see now that he was lost; that he had this immense power and responsibility, but now it belonged to no one. In short, that the stranger was just that: a stranger to himself.


	3. Downfall

**Fall from Grace  
Chapter 2: Downfall**

"Alright Frank, the president has given us the go ahead."

Five years before a stranger roamed the streets of Kosovo, a soldier named Gray Fox sat in a small briefing room. This room was situated in the headquarters of the group FOX-HOUND, and Gray Fox (as the group's squad leader) had been there many times. He listened as Big Boss, his commanding officer and personal role model, gave the details of the mission.

"In light of the evidence you and Solid Snake uncovered in South Africa, the island nation Outer Heaven has been deemed a nuclear threat."

Fox was not the least bit surprised. He had been anticipating this, and in fact it had been _he_ who had suggested the mission in the first place. It just took time for the bureaucracy's gears to turn.

"Naturally, the president does not want to shine public light on this alleged 'Metal Gear' project, and so we've been authorized only for a small scale black-op."

That's the way it always was with FOX-HOUND. The biggest problems were always restricted to the smallest operations. And, the United States always had its thumb in the hottest pies. That's one real reason that Fox stayed with the unit. The bar was always set high, and every mission was a challenge. Of course, there never had been a job Gray Fox couldn't take.

"This is a solo sneaking mission. You'll be going in alone by parachute, with a landing on the perimeter of the base." They examined a satellite image of the facility. "Weapons and equipment OSP."

The other reason, the main reason that Fox stayed, was for Big Boss. Fox had never before been able to devote himself to a cause. His childhood was riddled with forced combat and brainwashing. He'd never had the chance to be an individual. Then along came Big Boss. Big Boss showed him how feeble his brainwashing really was. He showed him that he was not the "perfect soldier," that everyone has flaws, and that he was tricked into believing otherwise. Big Boss crashed his entire world down around him. But, in doing so, he managed to give him a new purpose.

Big Boss was a genius and a patriot, and his charisma and loyalty appealed to Fox. His motivation was contagious and Fox, who was not patriotic himself, found himself interested in Big Boss's goals. He wanted what Big Boss wanted, reveled in the older man's successes and found a home with the unit FOX-HOUND.

Fox looked up into his commanding officer's good eye for the first time that morning. "Solo mission? You don't want Snake to stay involved in this?"

Big Boss shook his head slowly. "Solid Snake did not learn as much as you learned. It's still better to keep as few people involved in this situation as possible. You know how delicate this is, Frank, and he still has plausible deniability. You can handle it alone."

Fox scoffed. Of course he could.

FOX-HOUND provided Fox with exactly what he wanted. Over the years, he had not only developed a taste for conflict, but a dependence on it. He _needed_ the battlefield, as he supposed most veteran soldiers found that they needed it. But, standard infantry work could no longer satisfy his lust. He needed something more intimate, more personal and more challenging. That's where Big Boss's unit came in. FOX-HOUND gave him a constant source of war; irregular operations that tested his skills in every field. Though he was not a patriot himself, he had no problem giving himself to the American government because Big Boss _was_ a patriot, and he was entranced by the man.

The briefing went on for a while, but not too long. Fox never needed too much information to get started, and Big Boss never pushed unnecessary support or advice onto him. Fox loved that about his CO. He kept a hands-off approach when it came to the mission; his field operative always had the go ahead to do what he deemed necessary when it came to a mission. But, when Big Boss _did_ have a piece of advice, it was always practical, always useful and often life-saving.

Fox could have done this job for the rest of his life.

"Suit up then, Frank. You're scheduled for take-off in three hours, and you touch down in Outer Heaven tomorrow at 0500. We'll be in radio contact then. Good luck."

But, of course, comfort like this never lasts. This was the last time Fox saw Big Boss face to face before everything went to hell.

He made a successful landing in Outer Heaven at exactly 0500 the next morning and made radio contact with his CO, marking his position. Standard procedure.

Immediately afterward, he snuck through the perimeter of the small fortress nation. He noticed heavy security: several guards with sniper rifles looking uncharacteristically alert for regular sentries. This had seemed strange to him, and he radioed the information in to Big Boss as soon as he managed to pass through their line of sight undetected. The voice on the radio was very cool. "Nice work, Gray Fox. Keep me informed."

Things went forward, and Fox had been continually surprised at the number of security patrols he found sweeping the area. They were persistent and thorough. It seemed to Fox that they were looking for an intruder, but he was confident that he had come into the base undetected. He wondered if maybe there was someone else sneaking around less tactfully.

Either way, it was obvious from the get go. Something was wrong.

Eventually Fox found a security station, neutralized the guard on watch, and began to sift through the surveillance cameras looking for his target. He was not disappointed. Deep below the ground, in a subterranean hangar, he found a camera which displayed an image of something truly frightening: a completed version of the monster whose blueprints he had uncovered in South Africa. The monster he had known to expect in this place.

He radioed his CO immediately.

"This is Gray Fox."

"Big Boss here. What's your status?"

"I've found a security surveillance room."

Some shuffling on the other side and a distracted voice replied to him. "Uh huh…"

"One of the cameras is showing me a hangar. Boss, it's there."

"What is? Go on." Still distracted.

"Metal Gear…" and that was the only message Fox managed to get out. Before he could finish his sentence, the door to the surveillance room slid shut and its lock clicked. A hissing sound told the soldier that the room was filling with gas. He took a deep breath, stopped speaking to Big Boss to conserve his air, and began searching the room for cracks. Needless to say, he found none.

When the gas cleared and the sentries came into the room to arrest him, Gray Fox was found collapsed and unconscious on a computer panel. In his hand was his combat knife. He had attempted to carve a hole in a pane of bulletproof glass and failed. For the first time in his FOX-HOUND career he was locked up with his radio taken away.

During his time in the prison cell, the soldier went over the short lived mission time and again in his mind. He tried to think of some place where he must have been marked, or some soldier who must have seen more than it looked like he saw. But, he could think of nothing. He had no idea how they caught him. He'd been so careful. He was sure he had not been seen. He didn't think he was capable of a mistake so large.

So he sat in the cell, poisoned from the gas, and time passed.

Several days later, Big Boss decided to make another attempt at infiltration. Solid Snake was sent in, and successfully penetrated the base. After some reconnaissance, he managed a rescue.

Snake got Fox out of his prison cell. He had made a connection with a local resistance member named Kyle Schneider, who he then contacted. Schneider took custody of the weakened Gray Fox, and helped smuggle him back over the Outer Heaven border while Snake went on to continue the original mission. Fox borrowed a radio from the resistance and tried to make contact with his CO for further instructions, but Big Boss would not respond.

Fox did manage to contact Solid Snake's evac team though, who were standing by in the area. They also had mysteriously lost communications with Big Boss, but were under strict orders to hold position until the completion of Snake's mission.

The team agreed to send a chopper out to pick up the operative, and they took him back to their camp. He was treated by a field medic and kept bedridden due to the effects of the gas. Without Big Boss's go ahead he could not return home, so his transport was delayed until Snake was finished. He eagerly awaited news from the new field operative.

When it came, he was not so enthused.

Snake came back with the unbelievable revelation that it had been Big Boss in charge of Outer Heaven the whole time. He had betrayed his country and his unit, and had personally deceived Fox. He created a nuclear weapon of mass death all under the guise of being a heroic soldier and a true patriot. In short, Big Boss was a hypocrite. A traitor to everything he claimed to stand for and everything he had, for years, fought for. And now, Snake had ended him.

Fox had been fighting off the sickness that came with the gas for days by the sheer force of his will. With Snake's return that will was shattered, and he succumbed to it. He was unconscious for most of the trip home and bedridden for a week afterward. Besides Big Boss's professional failures, he had personally saved Fox's life twice and had been much more to him than just a commanding officer. His treachery went deeper than just national lines, and Fox took it quite hard.

Then, with Big Boss gone, the task of restructuring FOX-HOUND began. As the squad leader and second in command, Fox was naturally approached about becoming the next commander. He turned it down in a heartbeat.

Solid Snake told him he was foolish to do so, and Fox did not say much to contest the younger man, but he knew otherwise. He had no passion for the job. There was no real interest in FOX-HOUND anymore with its leader gone. His interest in the United States as a whole was severely depressed. He stayed only as a matter of convenience, and refused leadership.

It was then given to an old friend of Big Boss, Colonel Roy Campbell. Campbell came in with sweeping changes for the unit and a brand new style of leadership. He liked to have a lot more involvement in his unit's missions, with constant radio contact. He was competent, true, but Fox found him nosy and he was certainly not inspiring. He was no Big Boss.

Fox found no attachment to this new leader whatsoever, and began to lash out. He outright refused to go on assignment. There were several instances when Campbell insisted, rather stolidly, that Fox take a mission and go into the field, but for months he simply rejected authority. If it had been anyone else, they would have discharged and disciplined him for insubordination. But, because it was Gray Fox, and because the country did owe him so much already, the unit and Campbell tolerated his behavior. Eventually, they just stopped trying to push.

The individualistic missions are only doable when the individual has some sort of vested interest in them. In most cases, military training drills that interest into a soldier, but Fox was different. He had deeper levels of motivation, and now they were gone. He knew that he would not be of any real use to FOX-HOUND anymore, even if he could overcome his strategic differences with Campbell. He was just apathetic. With that revelation came his decision to resign.

Although he could not benefit FOX-HOUND, Fox also knew that he could not survive without the battlefield. It was an addiction as much as any drug. So, in order to stay there, he did the simplest thing that he could. He pulled what strings he had to be transferred into the Army's regular Special Forces. The gears of the bureaucracy turned again, and before the year was out, Gray Fox was gone. The official story was that he went M.I.A. and never came back. The truth was, of course, that Gray Fox was dead. All that was left was a stranger.

This stranger went by the false name of Frank Jaeger, one he had picked up years ago. He become an Army ranger, and joined an unexceptional L.R.R.P. squad. Six men. Just following orders. No real thinking needed. And, as he approached that small church in the stinking desert heat of Kosovo, he truly thought he would do this for the rest of his life. Covered in the robe and hood with a clunky, outdated radio in his right ear, the stranger was resigned to his dull, lifeless fate.


	4. Going Forward

**Fall from Grace**

**Chapter 3: Going Forward  
**By, Frank Hunter

Of course, no man with the abilities of this stranger could go unnoticed for long. It's true that Jaeger was no longer expected to operate alone, but that didn't mean that his performances were anything less than exceptional. He could do things his teammates could not, accomplish things that seemed impossible at first. It wasn't long before the powers that be realized that they could take advantage of these skills.

And now, here he was.

The stranger approached the church, his target. It was a magnificent building, he thought. Gothic. Very striking architecture. Very beautiful. The stranger had always been a student of architecture. This was more a tactical study than one of specific interest. The more you knew about a building's construction, the more design flaws you could find. Also, with increasing updates to modern technology, there were even more ways to exploit an entrance.

He ran his hand along the stone wall and slipped along the side of the building, dropping into an alley and noticed by no one. The stone blocks were large. He ran a finger between the blocks, through a crevasse where they were mortared together. The mortar was weak, and broke at his touch. He found that just fine.

Since President Clinton ordered military action in Kosovo, the situation had only become worse. Slobodan Milosevic could see his control slipping away, and although the war was not on the ground yet, bombs had begun falling. Escalation was going to occur, and everyone involved could feel it. Now, there was intelligence that an arms deal was to go down between one of Milosevic's men and a dealer based out near China, to try and procure some weapons system to fight back.

This dealer came with a reputation. He had his very own army and fortress on the Chinese border, so intelligence claimed. There was evidence that he was showing interest in more and more war zones all over the world, both big and small. Rumor had it that the technology he was peddling was nothing to scoff at, either. Some told stories that this dealer was a monster who fed on war; that his fortress was growing all the time as he profited off the deaths of others. That he was creating a nation based on a kind of war economy.

These were just rumors spread by the soldiers in whatever area he'd been seen. Maybe they didn't mean anything, but Intelligence reported back anything they heard to command, and it was all regurgitated to Jaeger during briefing.

At the very least, they got a name of this war haven.

It was called Zanzibar Land.

Now Intelligence wanted something more solid. It seemed more and more likely that this arms dealer could begin causing serious problems in countless war zones, and now he was showing his face in Kosovo. There was a high level Zanzibar Land officer scheduled to meet Milosevic's man in this very church. Someone had to witness that meeting. Someone had to get their hands on the technology the dealer was offering. Intelligence wanted to know what it was. Also, someone needed to terminate this arms dealer. They needed to bite Zanzibar Land. They needed to bite deeply, and show them that they could not screw with U.S. interests without there being consequences. Normally L.R.R.P. squads are not considered assassins, but when the powers that be saw the potential evident in Frank Jaeger, they decided to put him to work.

His radio crackled with static for a moment before a voice came through to him. "Frank, you've been standing there for a while. You ok?"

That was his teammate, Damien. Jaeger didn't know his last name. Or was it Donovan and he didn't know his first name? It really didn't matter. There were five other members of the L.R.R.P. squad stationed around the town, eyes on the church and rifles ready to make sure nothing unexpected happened during the mission. They were all his support, and not a one of them would be necessary. Such an incredible waste of time and resources.

"I'm fine," Frank replied in a dry voice, scanning the wall above him. "I've found my way in."

About five meters up in the air, protruding from the wall, was a small air conditioning vent. These modern intrusions into traditional architecture made these jobs much too easy. The vent looked small, but Frank knew from experience that he could fit into an AC vent. It would probably take him right where he needed to go.

Measuring the distance with his eyes, Jaeger picked a stone block at about neck-height, and began peeling the mortar away with his thumb. "Roger," the radio crackled back at him. "Keep us posted."

Yeah, right.

Now there was a nice little indentation just below that stone block. With a glance to make sure he still didn't have an audience, he backed up and took a run at the wall. Jumping as high as he could, he wedged one boot into this new indentation and reached his arms up to wrap around the vent. Easy as cake.

Frank pried the aluminum vent cover off, keeping himself sturdy with his other hand. Reaching a little higher, he managed to balance the cover on top of the vent, and leaned it against the wall. With the shaft now open, he pulled himself inside, arms out in front. It was tight, but like he expected, he fit.

Another successful infiltration under his belt, the man set out to find his target.


	5. Thy Kingdom Come

**Fall from Grace  
Chapter 4: Thy Kingdom Come  
**By, Frank Hunter

Jaeger crawled through the vents, as swiftly as only a practiced man could. The walls pressed tightly around him like the sides of a steel coffin, but he was not bothered. Jaeger was not claustrophobic, and he had no intention of picking up such an absurd fear. He kept moving.

Quickly he squirmed, trying to find a grate that looked out on the rows of pews. If the meeting was already underway, he'd need to be fast, and to hear everything the men had left to say. He didn't like the idea that he may have missed valuable information already. Every bit of it was important, and he liked to be thorough.

After circling partway around the church, Jaeger found what he was looking for. Turning a corner, he saw two grates opposite one another. Sidling up rapidly he took a glimpse out the one on his right side, keeping his face as hidden as possible. The grate looked out over a vestibule, grandly decorated with crimson curtains draped along the walls. The curtains seemed to emulate a sort of wave effect which radiated out from the mammoth front doors. The doors themselves were colored black, contrasting the dark wooden floor and emphasizing the marble basin just below Frank's field of vision, half filled with holy water and also colored black. They were shut.

Breaking off from this view to look out to his left, Jaeger found what he was looking for. The left side looked out onto the church itself. Wooden pews stretched out in three rows, moving ever closer to a marble altar, colored black and etched with a white sign of the cross. Above the altar, between more red waves of fabric, an enormous black crucifix stood plastered to the wall. The man Jesus hung pinned where he always seemed to be, head lolled and looking down upon the parishioners who might be. Except, for some strange reason, Frank was struck momentarily with the impression that Christ's eyes were pointed upward, looking straight at him. The words passed through his hear quickly. _Hallowed be thy name_, thought Frank reflexively. _Thy kingdom come._

He shook his head. Frank had never been a man of religion. He never put very much stock into the preachings of those who claimed to be enlightened. The only thing he knew for sure about preaching is that it gave him and those in his field a shit load of work.

He tried to put the stray thought out of his mind, but it seemed to have taken up residence. _Thy kingdom come._ Why did it sound so important?

_Thy kingdom come._ Almost as if it meant something tangible.

There was only one parishioner out there today, three rows from the front, under the gaze of the Lord. Jaeger thought that it must be Milosevic's man. He hadn't missed the meeting after all. They were still waiting for the arms dealer.

And, almost as if on cue, a loud bang echoed through the church. A creaking followed, as one of the massive doors slowly swung open. Frank glanced to the right and saw, blocking the light which fought to engulf the dim vestibule, the silhouette of a man wearing a cloak not too dissimilar from his own. The details of the man's face and body were shadowed by the light, and so Frank saw nothing but his shape and his stride. He walked, calmly and confidently, toward the wall above which Frank now hid. It was the walk of a soldier.

The front door slammed closed as the arms dealer opened the inner door directly beneath Frank's vent, and stepped out into the church proper. Frank looked again to his left and saw the man's robed and hooded back moving up the aisles of pews. Milosevic's man now stood to meet him, and the two exchanged a brief handshake before sitting down beside one another as if in prayer.

_Here we go_, Jaeger thought to himself. _Hallowed be thy name. Amen._


	6. Dropping In

**Fall from Grace****  
****Chapter 5: Dropping In****  
**By, Frank Hunter

"Pleasant afternoon to you, Mr. Zanzibar," said Milosevic's man as the arms dealer took his hand in a business-like manner. _Mr. Zanzibar_, Frank thought. _He doesn't even know the dealer's real name._

"To you as well, Mr. Sivarah," came the reply. Frank was relieved to find that the two were speaking in clean Serbian. A fear had been gnawing at the back of his mind that the deal might have gone down in Gorani or Bosnian. If that were the case, it wouldn't have mattered how close he was to it, he wouldn't have understood a word. Fortune smiled down, he supposed.

"I trust you had no trouble finding this meeting place?" Sivarah went on.

"You'd have done well to hide it a bit better. In war zones, the walls have a habit of growing ears." The man (Frank could tell from the rasp and strain in his voice that he was an older man) brought the thick cylinder of a cigar up from his pocket. A moment later, Frank could hear the distinct _clack_ of a solid metal lighter, and a plume of smoke rose from above his hooded form. Frank could not remember how the Lord felt about smoking in his sacred places, but he had a feeling that the act was at least mildly disrespectful. Sivarah, however, didn't flinch. He didn't say a word about it.

_The dealer has the upper hand_, Frank understood, the unspoken signals clear as day. _He's got something they'd kill for. Hell, they probably already have._

"Perhaps you forget Mr. Zanzibar. We had wanted to arrange a meeting back at the national palace. It was you who wanted to be somewhere quieter. Somewhere more, how did you put it? …ambiguous."

The arms dealer laughed a soft, silent laugh. "I thought that was better for everyone involved. After all," the man took a long drag. "The rest of the party isn't, as _I _put it, in the know about Mr. Milosevic's bid for Model D, are they?"

A tense silence fell.

The arms dealer went on. "This seems, from where I'm sitting, a very risky bid. An attempt to close his fist around the rest of this so-called government? To show that he is the glue that will keep this country together. He has something to prove."

"If you mean the American invaders…"

"The Americans are the least of your worries. Even when the Americans are gone, there is no reason that a tiny little powder keg of a country like this should persist holding together at all. Milosevic is grasping at straws, and if he'd met me today I'd tell him this himself.

Sivarah's voice took an edge. "If you came here just to insult my country, then I think there was a miscommunication, my friend. Maybe it would be better if you go."

That laugh again. "I came here to bring you an opportunity, but you need to keep in mind that, from where I sit, it does not seem wise to deliver this power into hands like yours. There are governments lined up across eastern Europe and down the coast of Asia waiting to get their hands on Model D. I've even got one first world country in the bidding, and we haven't even begun production yet. What I need from you, Mr. Sivarah, is an explanation for just how delivering this weapon to you is profitable for me, and how you plan to pay for it."

The other man cleared his through and took center stage, and Frank got the impression that it was a rehearsed speech, what he'd actually been prepared to talk about that day. Some patriotic mumbo jumbo about the good of the great state bringing good to the world. He paid it less than half a mind, but mulled over the more important details.

Model D was obviously a code name, but for what? Something that would be sold to hostile nations worldwide and could bring nothing but death and destruction. And a first world nation? Considering what side of the iron curtain Mr. Zanzibar was parading around in, he could only assume it to be Russia. Or worse, China. Nothing good would come of that.

It was obvious they needed to get more information on this Model D, and save filling out the paperwork for a full-fledged infiltration into Zanzibar Land, there was only one person who could give them all the details they needed. Frank needed to capture the arms dealer and get him back to HQ for interrogation. That was the only way they'd figure out what this thing was, and who was lined up to buy it.

The conversation lasted about twenty more minutes, and Frank waited patiently for his opportunity. The arms dealer did not seem to be very convinced of Milosevic's intentions or his coin, and the negotiation must have abruptly ended on a sour note, because Sivarah spat at his feet before rising and stalking out toward the back door.

As the figure passed under Frank, he wrapped his fingers around the little grate leading out of his hiding place and into the entry hall. The negotiator opened the heavy church door and as it rolled backward and slammed shut behind him, Frank pulled on the grate. It dislodged, the sound of it masked by the boom of the door, and he set it down out of his way. He looked back into the church and saw the arms dealer still sitting at the pew, in no apparent hurry. He finished his cigar, dropped it on the ground and stepped it out. He seemed to examine the crucifix behind the altar for a long moment, but eventually turned to make his way toward the door.

As the arms dealer passed under Frank, he readied himself at the open grate in a low crouch, and pulled his trusty combat knife from its resting place in his boot. Better than a gun in close quarters, he'd always been taught, and he agreed. A knife was often better than a gun in other circumstances too, in the hands of someone properly skilled.

The dealer made for the door, his back to Frank, and the soldier took his opportunity. He leapt from the duct toward the ground with less than a sound as he dropped from the ceiling.

But the arms dealer was good. Less than a sound was still too much.

The dealer cocked his head and with split second reflexes ripped the clasp from his cloak and threw the fabric out behind him.

The cloak flew straight into Frank's line of sight, and then into him, as the quick reaction caught him off guard. Before he was halfway to the ground, he was blinded and tangled in the cloth. He worked to keep his feet under him , judged the distance right, and landed in a crouch without breaking anything.

Until the arms dealer grabbed him. The hand which held the combat knife roared into a searing pain as the other man snatched Frank's thumb and twisted in a direction it was never meant to go. He muffled a shout, and quickly swung the blade in the direction the assailant had reached him from, clasping the handle tightly between his palm and the rest of his fingers.

He missed. The dealer let him swing, caught his arm just after the apex and tossed him to the floor, dislocating his shoulder on the way down with a fancy judo maneuver. Frank dropped the knife with his now-useless hand and the other man immediately kicked it out of the way and backed up several steps. Frank heard all of this, but his face was still tangled in the bloody cloak. He wrestled with it in a bid to get it off and face his opponent with one good hand and salvage this fight, but then he heard the unmistakable click of a chamber locking in an automatic weapon.

"Don't move," came the dealer's voice, and Frank held still. It was his best bet.

Footsteps moved around him now, and Frank lay on the floor wondering how he'd been bested so quickly. His arm screamed as if in protest, and he agreed. All he could think of was, once he could see, this whole thing would turn around.

The dealer didn't give him that opportunity. Before anything else happened, a steel-toed boot crashed into the side of Frank's head with the force of a solid kick, and the world went dim. He had two vague memories afterward. One, of the cloak being lifted and a man with an eyepatch looking down at him, muttering softly. "Frank?" Muttering his name.

The second was of the radio in his ear buzzing to life with his squad mate on the other end. "Frank? Frank, do you read? One of them came out. Do you read?" The second kick then shattered the flimsy earpiece, and turned darkness to blackness.


	7. Resurrection

**Fall from Grace  
Chapter 6: Resurrection**

By, Frank Hunter

The piercing sensation of ice-cold water woke Frank as it struck his face. It dripped down his neck and forced a fit of shivering from him as he tried to open his eyes and gauge where he was. It wasn't too difficult, though his right temple protested in a flash of pain and suggested that he go back to sleep. He ignored it.

Sitting in front of him, precisely in front of him straddled backward on a chair, was the last man he'd expected to see, now or ever again, shadowed by two anonymous guards in balaclavas on either side.

"B…boss?"

"Frank," he said. He stared with his one cool blue eye. His hair had begun to grow gray, but other than that Frank didn't think he'd aged. He had the body and musculature of a younger man. It was the man he remembered.

"It's been some time," Boss said to him.

Frank said nothing.

"Ah. I get the 'silent treatment,' do I?" From the front pocket of his fatigues, Big Boss pulled a cigar. It was Cuban, Frank expected, if the man still lived up to his usual demands for quality. He watched it as his mentor brought it to his lips and lit it, such a familiar simple gesture. One he'd watched and never paid the slightest attention to hundreds of times.

Boss noticed him watching and as he finished puffing the first few breaths of the smoke, lowered it and regarded him again. "Want one?"

Frank remained silent. He didn't have to move to know his arms were tied behind the chair, a functional knot in cloth, for immobility, set underneath a steel chain, for insurance. This was not a negotiating position. It was not a friendly meeting or an apology.

"I couldn't help but notice," Boss began, "the Ranger patch on your shoulder."

Frank glanced at it, moving his eyes only. It was still there.

"Not with FOX-HOUND anymore, I assume. Not even black ops. Regular army, now, Frank…"

He blew a cloud of smoke across the room, which smelled like a basement before it smelled of Caribbean tobacco. The anger at this man bubbled in Frank's stomach.

"Of course, our usual policy is to terminate any nosy parties on sight," Boss said and got up to begin pacing the room. "A policy which did not play out well for your friends. Hm. There should have be five others if I remember correctly. Was that right?" He glanced over his shoulder and one of the balaclavas nodded in a short motion. "Tragic. Unfortunate. But you, Frank. We can't just kill you."

"Fuck you," Frank muttered.

"Come again?" Boss asked. It sounded like he genuinely hadn't heard, so Frank annunciated for him.

"Fuck. You."

"Ah. An articulate contribution. You've fallen a long way, Frank."

"You left me to die," Frank growled at him. "You left me to die in that shithole in Africa. And you set the both of us up, you bullshit double-crossing fuck! I trusted you. We all trusted you with our fucking lives!"

Big Boss watched this outburst with the cigar in his mouth. "You know nothing about what led to Outer Heaven," he said when Frank quieted. "You think you knew me, Frank. You never really knew anything."

"Fuck you," he said again.

"I think you will, though," Boss said. "I think that, here, you will come to learn more about the world than you ever imagined. Maybe then you will understand me. Maybe you will want to stay."

Frank glared at him, but got his emotions under control again. He was a soldier, damn it, not a child. And he could hold it together.

"We killed your team, Frank, but not you, and I'm afraid nostalgia is not the only reason. See, whatever you heard, or thought you heard, in that church is privileged information. We are not ready to tolerate the prying fingers of America or the United Nations in Zanzibar Land, not yet." He squatted down and leaned close into Frank's face. "So I need to know who got that information before we picked you up."

_He doesn't know_, Frank understood. _He doesn't know I didn't tell anyone._ It was the only upper hand he was going to be dealt. Boss didn't know that no one knew about him or Model D. He needed Frank alive to find that out. That was all there was to it.

Frank began to speak the only words he knew he would speak in the near future, the only words he could afford to give away in this situation.

"Frank Jaeger, Army Ranger Corps, number 5627. Frank Jaeger, Army Ranger Corps, number 5627, Frank…"

"So be it," Boss said, not without reluctance. He stepped away and Frank could see one of the balaclavas pulling out a very small kit of very reflective tools. He turned off his mind, as best he was able. He turned off his nerves. He pulled out of the room, away from Big Boss again, and retreated into himself. Whatever was about to come, it was not going to be pleasant, and whatever happened to his body, he didn't want to be here for it.


	8. Back Then

**Fall from Grace  
Chapter 7: Back Then…  
**By, Frank Hunter

_Rhodesia_

_1979_

"Get your foot on the fucking gas!" Gray Fox roared from the passenger seat. The other man, an SAS operative named Ian Kane, worked to push the jeep just a little harder. The pedal was down as far as it could go and the wind was kicking through the open air, but the caravan ahead of them was still putting distance on them as tires kicked up dirt and sand into a blinding cloud within the sunny afternoon.

Gray Fox gripped the jeep's railing, stood up, and leaned out the passenger side. He braced his M16 to his shoulder with painful tightness and opened fire. Though, usually an exceptional marksman, 90+ mile per hour speeds and fishtail sliding across uneven ground will make a trial for even the most seasoned shooter. He missed the tires of the black SUV ahead of him, and in the mess of dust and debris could not even see how far off he was.

The SUV responded with a volley of its own, and Fox ducked back into the vehicle and behind the dash as bullets flew.

"Agh!" came the sound from the driver's seat. Fox looked over to find red splashback covering Kane's fatigues and the driver's seat. Blood oozed from his shoulder.

"You're shot!" Fox shouted.

"Not serious," Kane answered with his usual cockney tinge. His knuckles whitened on the wheel. "Just get out there. Plug the bastards!"

Fox leaned to the side and loosed another round. He wasn't particularly concerned about the well-being of his companion, beyond the immediate threat the driver's death or incapacitation would pose to him as the passenger. FOX-HOUND didn't usually work alongside other teams, SAS included. It wasn't in his nature to deal with a partner.

The SUVs they were pursuing, three total, were growing ever smaller in the distance. They'd be lost entirely before long. "You need to drive straighter!" Fox shouted at him.

"You need to shoot straighter!" the SAS operative wheezed back. From his face, he looked like he risked passing out within minutes.

"Damn it," Fox muttered. He fired and missed again. He had nothing to work with besides the unreliable M16 and his even more useless sidearm and combat knife. He was running out of options.

The small transmitter in his ear went off with a ringing noise, and Fox reached up and dialed it into life. "Gray Fox here."

Kane grumbled from beside him. "Oy. No social calls during work, huh?" Fox ignored him.

"Big Boss here," spoke the familiar voice in the receiver. "SitRep."

"Boss, primary objective is failed. Target was tipped off prior to infiltration, repeat, Nkomo was informed about the assassination. Target fled the premises before we could accomplish the mission. Currently in pursuit of the subject's vehicle."

"Roger, Gray Fox. Permission to use all means at your disposal to salvage the mission. Out."

"Fucking all means…" Fox muttered as he switched the radio off.

"We got backup?" Kane slurred.

"Not exactly," Fox answered. He checked his magazine. Half a clip left. This was gonna be it. "Just hold the fucking car steady, will you?"

"Yeah."

Fox popped the magazine back into the rifle, chambered a round, and stood straight up, wrapping an arm around the crossbar over the seat. It was risky presenting such a big target to the enemy, but he had to brace himself as solidly as possible. There wouldn't be another chance.

The enemy gunmen saw him and took advantage, but shooting under these conditions wasn't any easier on them. Fox felt some shrapnel ricochet off the crossbar, but nothing hit. He ignored it, and put the risk out of his mind. He took a breath, held it, and exhaled. Then, again. Aiming was like a sort of meditation; if he could just clear his mind, let the rifle become an extension of himself, he could send the bullet where it needed to go.

"If you're gonna do something…" Kane trailed off.

Fox stared down his sights for a perceived eternity before letting off a shot, then a second, then another. The third did its job, striking the rear tire on the SUV's left side. At that kind of speed, the driver couldn't keep control over the big vehicle, and it skidded of control, crossed over itself in the middle of the road, and barrel rolled along for a few paces before coming to a smoking, disfigured stop.

"Yes!" Fox hissed. One down, and ammunition leftover. He might be able to get one of the others too.

With the relentlessness of practiced discipline, he disregarded what he'd just done and began to line up his sights on the second car, farther down the road, an even tougher shot. He took a breath.

But something was wrong.

He realized, as they were almost on top of it, that the first SUV had come to its rolling stop in the middle of the road, and that their jeep was now rocketing into it without regard. That broke his concentration.

"Ian, swerve!" he screamed, but Kane didn't. Fox looked down and saw, with just enough time to do nothing, that his companion had lost consciousness with his foot on the gas. There wasn't even time to swear.

The jeep slammed into the wreck at top speed, crushing Fox's chest against the crossbar with enough force to shatter ribs. He was thrown from the vehicle, losing some momentum in the impact but still maintaining enough to be thrown clear, out of the jeep and over the debris. He felt more than heard his right arm crunch as he landed on it. His ears rang. His vision swam into blurred swirls and shapes. He thought that he would black out, but realized he hadn't when he deciphered that thought. There was no pain yet. He was in shock, but that wouldn't last.

He rolled over onto his back with a groan and squinted back and the heap of scrap metal and broken glass. Kane, it seemed, was now nothing more than a red stain on a fractured windshield. At least that's all he could see. The smoke played games with his vision and everything seemed to be moving and shifting around, it was there and it wasn't.

When the door, now on the top of the SUV, opened up and people began spilling out over the side, he registered how odd it was before he registered that it was not a hallucination. He heard Big Boss's voice in his ear. "Salvage the mission…"

The mission.

The mission!

The other two cars were long gone, but if his target was here, it was his responsibility to finish the job. He sat up, pushing with one arm, as the other was strangely non responsive. His body fought him, but without pain still, just with restraint. He overtook it. He reached for his pistol and found it with his left hand, gripping it with every ounce of him. The mission. He'd need it.

As he struggled to his feet, some straggling form spotted him from the wreckage. The man tried to shout something, to alert his party, but Fox silenced him. Lining up the shot was instinct; pulling the trigger was reflex. The man went down in a crash of gunfire.

But the survivors did hear that. There were gasps and screams and he could see people struggling away into the tall grass that grew beside the road. No. They couldn't leave.

The next few minutes were surreal, or maybe just part of some mental repression that blanketed a good deal of Fox's young memory. It covered him in such a way that even he knew not to pry. Fox moved through the grass like a ghost, and it opened upon a river, and when he finally reached that river, he reached it alone. His path was marked with blood: not guilty blood, mind you, though it ran just as thick. This was the blood of dignitaries, diplomats, and maybe a single armed escort. It was not the blood of soldiers. These, he knew, were men and women who hadn't needed to die, who had no association, no quarrel with him. Joshua Nkomo, the man he'd been sent to this place to kill, his target, was not here.

Murder is one of those things that gets easier each time, and it's events like the massacre there, along the Zambezi River, that make the horror of it into a non-event. Fox sat down again along the bank of the river. He found a thick branch that had fallen from one of the indigenous trees. The pain in his chest and his arm was beginning to settle in, and he knew in some detached place that he would need to set the wounds with some bandages and a splint if he wanted any hope of coming out of this alive. He set about his work, focused on it intently, feeling the pain for what it was, thinking about anything but what he had done. He was still young, and maybe under everything there was still a soul.

As he sat, there was a rustle in the grass, and maybe it was only due to his injury that he wasn't a split second faster, but as he dropped the bandage he had been working with and raised his weapon, his eyes fell upon the face of a child, a brown-skinned girl no more than three or four years old. The girl's eyes were, Fox thought, the biggest he'd ever seen. She was terrified and alone, the child of one of the dignitaries maybe? He thought it a miracle that such a fragile creature had survived the car wreck with no more than a few scratches and bruises. But it was obvious that she was no soldier either. And he'd done enough killing for one day.

The child watched him wordlessly as he finished bandaging himself, splinted and slung his right arm, and sat against a rock. She kept her distance the whole while, didn't actually come up to him until he reached into his pack and pulled a tin of combat rations out in an effort to gain some sustenance. It was nothing, some flavorless biscuits and vegetables that were awful even in the worst of times, but he offered some to her because it was all he could do, and it was this act of kindness that earned her trust. She came and ate with him as the sun went down, and that night she fell asleep beside him, tucked under his arm for warmth. And though he held her, she frightened him, because her wide eyes reminded him of nothing but the horror he had brought down upon the people here, and as he began to come back to himself, it became clearer to him that all the violence and bloodshed had been for nothing, and he still had not salvaged his mission.

Fox didn't sleep that night. It wouldn't be the last time he did something that he would regret for the rest of his life.


End file.
